


Shall I describe him?

by islasands



Series: Lambski [67]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:01:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A row of thoughts, like a row of waves, breaks in lines...</p><p>The music is Grandjany's cadenza - from Handel's Harp Concerto, played here by Josh Lane. The recording is imperfect, but so is the story, so I don't think it matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall I describe him?

"Grandjany's cadenza - Handel Harp Concerto"

 

Performed by Josh Layne

 

  


 

 

There are doors to everything, he thought. You just have to find them. By shape shifting. 

Look at the rain jumping on the lake as though it’s landing on a hot plate. Look at those mountains, a row of tombstones, their marble faces stained and eaten by snow. Who lies beneath them, I wonder, and what are they wearing? Giant lords whose skeletons are wrapped in silver gauze? Like cocoons?

And think of all the tears of the dead that are in those clouds. Nothing is wasted. Nothing.

Yesterday we saw a baby tree growing out of the ashes of a fire. 

Shall I describe him? 

His skin is like a beautiful summer day, when everything has gone right, and the wattle seeds are popping out of their black cases in the dune hollows where the sand burns your feet, and the towels are sadistic with sand, and the sea is coming in on purpose, and dogs and children are running to meet it, and you are not in trouble for anything and never have been. His skin is like that. A summer day’s worth of skin. And you say, “Never forget.” 

I look at his skin with the eyes of my lips, running their gaze over the contours of his land, his geographical existence, and I don’t think of what is beneath it, the black dirt of him, or how far it is to go through him to the sheet of our bed. I survey all the major landmarks, his face, throat, torso, limbs, genitals, drinking up their thirst for me. I close my mouth over the parched places, his lips, nipples, testicles, the undersides of his knees and elbows and wrists, and leave traces of my saliva. My lips are like a snail. The foot of my tongue makes tracks all over him. 

And I brush away the remonstrances of his desire. I don’t want to know. I want to touch.

And you imagine I will want to tell you about his blue eyes, how fearlessly tender they are, how their blue appears in patches on Chagall paintings or in parts of stained glass windows? You think I will say shit like that. But that is not what I would say about his eyes. I like it when they are closed, and we are kissing, and I keep my eyes open so that I can see how pensive they seem when they are hiding their opinions beneath their shutters, and how the planes of his face look as though the wind sculpted them, and how for now they are so gracefully sheer and perfect and mysterious, like dunes in a desert, but already they hint at the stolid, implacable ‘sisu’ of a Finnish man. The Finnish man I love. Yes. I like it when his eyes are closed and I can look at his buried future and past as though I am kissing a statue that only a moment ago came to life. 

Or did you think I didn’t know his blood is five parts snow, five parts northern lights?

And then I come to the door of him and knock loudly, as though there is a storm at my back. I enter his house without so much as a polite greeting and head straight for the fire, the iron grate leaping full of his hard earned flames of self-preservation, and I help myself to their truths, all his private, unseen, anally sacred, and anally profane truths, the gold and shit of his core, the one place where what he thinks and believes is immaterial, and he is simply a beast, my beast, my mate. And I put them out. I put them all out.

And then, do you know what? Then I pull him on top of me and he feels as natural as long floppy grass and I gather up bunches of the blades, handfuls of his lovely ordinary being, and run them through my hands. And I hold him protectively, stroking his back, saying things, kissing his mouth that is softer than yellow dandelion heads, and everything is gentle and proper and clean. But inside my head my mind hisses like the sound of the sea dragging back over stones, and I can hardly bear the lightness of him, and I wish he was a boulder and not a man, and could sink into my body and pin me forever on the stones that lie on the river bed of love. 

As I was saying, we came upon a left over fire in a clearing, a tiny stonehenge filled with dead ashes. And a plant was growing in the middle of it. 

And as I was saying, when rain lands on a lake it bounces. And clouds, in case you didn’t know it, probably contain recycled tears from people who no longer have anything to cry about. 

And mountains, no matter what anyone says, conceal the bones of big creatures, much, much bigger than dinosaurs, who had starlight for blood and drank the sun from enormous cups made of ice, and sang such heartrendingly beautiful songs that the earth turned over and wept for joy and seas were made. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. 

It is all my story and I’m sticking to it. 

Shall I describe him?

 

 


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